FRIGHT The swirls at the foot of the bed have returned. I dread the blanket of sleep. Male, always male, they invade my room masquerading as shadow puppets on the front wall with the incoming streetlight. Rabbit-eared and whispering they congregate in secret burrows. Who to trust. Who to believe. A Roman Catholic priest, a
Fall: to Become the Silence (in the passing of Ruth Bader Ginsburg) November has threatened to enter the room. We fear exposure with our necks. Boardrooms do not grow pretty words; flat, polished business shoes suffocate us right at the stem. Leaves tremble: mouthing, wordless, they curl into coloured deaths. Outside, the wind has picked
breakage early morning avenues reveal the fragile- before they hide away to their shadows and bleak shelters- the tourette lady screams out good morning to the cripples and the homeless, i can not meet her eyes ignoring her and them into non existence i count the concrete cracks and look away, deaf to her braying-